


Aubade

by Morbane



Category: Romeo x Juliet (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clothed Sex, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Desperation, F/M, Wall Sex, exchange treat, fucking in the same room as your enemy's corpse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 10:23:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18467005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbane/pseuds/Morbane
Summary: A new dawn is ushered in for Neo Verona - one that Juliet will not be part of. Tybalt cannot accept her fate.





	Aubade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleRaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRaven/gifts).



> For the purposes of this fic, Romeo and Juliet's farewells at Montague's death are seen as effectively final by both of them. Although Juliet still believes she needs to sacrifice herself, this story does not reach that point and anything could happen (personally I'm rooting for Romeo to sacrifice himself instead...).

He hadn't expected to find her in the chapel, gazing pensively down at Montague's shroud. But he thought he understood what brought her there. _You were raised to overthrow Montague. I was born to kill him. Now that he is gone, we farewell his place in our lives._

And for Juliet, it would be a last farewell - much easier than those that she had made in her heart before it.

How she had surprised him. He had thought her brave but too gentle to lead a people against a tyrant. Now he saw her resolve. When they had spoken in the street before her advance on the castle, her calm eyes had seemed to look straight through him - to Escalus beyond. 

It was Tybalt who suddenly could not bear that thought.

Every moment that she stood there was one more moment of life, even infused as the place was by death, so he said nothing to break her silence. He only shifted when she turned away at last, returning to the door.

"Juliet. Wait."

He could see he was puzzling her. He had accepted her news evenly before. 

"Tybalt. You see, don't you? The longer I wait, the harder it will be."

"Good," he said, savagely, and crossed to her, and placed a hand on her left shoulder - the cold metal of the pauldron leaching warmth from his hand - and kissed her.

It wasn't rough - at first. At first it was the very lightest of presses against her lips, just to have something to remember of her as she was, bright and real and living, just to reach out to her, from one human to another, to acknowledge her in a way that words couldn't. He didn't want to just feel the contact of flesh but to feel her breath, her pulse, her feeling.

Then she pressed back, meeting his kiss, and he brought his other hand up to her other pauldron and crowded her against the wall.

In the lower city, he had friends of various kinds, some of whom he met to work out mutual frustrations, whether by fighting or fucking, some of whom had taught him things, some of whom he taught in turn. He did not consciously use anything now of what he had learned, either in pinning her or pleasing her. He only kissed her, forcefully and urgently but following the thread of her response. He broke away from her mouth as she trembled to kiss her jaw and neck, his own jaw clashing with the edge of her cuirass, and he brought his hand up to stroke her face and her closed eyelids and to trace the lines of her parted lips before kissing her there again. He felt her teeth behind her lips and licked between them, wishing wordlessly that she would bite down on his tongue to add the the bright taste of blood to the faint smell of it around them, to give him pain as well to remember her by.

He didn't take his mouth off hers as he undid the gorget that held his cloak clasped and let it fall. For the second time in as many hours - he remembered launching himself at Montague, and at the last moment, caring more for answers than revenge. 

Montague had had no answers, but if he had, Tybalt might have traded them then for the old bastard's life - a life whose end he had sought for all of his own.

The usurper Prince would have preferred it this way, of course. To die rather than to save a Capulet. His corpse cooled behind them, and yet in this he had a victory.

When Tybalt moved to kiss Juliet's neck again, her eyes opened and she looked down at him. "I didn't know you had these feelings, Tybalt," she said.

"I want you to live," he half-growled. How did he feel? He didn't know well enough to answer himself, let alone to explain it to her. If this was love - something he'd thought himself unsuited for - it was buried under anger and grief. He cared for her, but that was all he knew. He felt her shift, breathe in, about to remind him why she _must_ die, and to forestall that, he added, "Even if you go to Escalus, I want you to live _now_."

She let out her breath again, considering. Her breath was much steadier than his; he was half-gasping as he sucked a mark where her neck met her shoulder. Then she tilted her head up again, giving him access to her throat.

He wanted _all_ of her. He stepped back, keeping contact for a moment with his fingertips under her chin, and then moved to the wall niche beside her where a sconce of candles burned. He picked them up and placed them at the foot of Montague's bier, where they smoked, the flames blown out, extinguished by the breeze of their own abrupt passage through the air.

"Come, sit," he said. He held his cloak out to her. "Use this to cushion you." Rather than balling it up to sit on, she swirled it around herself, tucking its unclasped edges under the top edge of her chest-plate. Then she sat herself where he indicated, the cloak's edge reaching the floor even though her feet didn't. He was reminded again how new she was to adulthood, and yet her pose was that of a princess enthroned rather than a child in chair too big for her.

Too poised, too untouchable. He knelt between her legs, his hands on the hose of her thighs. He was painfully hard in his own hose and trews, but there were things he wanted much more than to relieve his own arousal. "I want to show you," he said.

She reached down and laid her hands on his, gripped briefly, then drew her hands away.

He dug his thumbs in, feeling the muscle she had developed over years of dashing about the city, sparring, dodging, and leaping to make a mockery of the Carabinieri who chased her. Easing his grip, he stroked her thighs up towards the edge of her tunic, pretending to himself that there was no need to hurry, that there was no falling world outside the door.

Between her blush as she watched him, and her blazing hair, she burned brighter than the candles she had replaced. He could feel suffusing warmth, too, as he moved his right hand up towards where her hose divided, her firm, trembling muscle giving way under his hand to softer flesh. Moisture pricked through the cloth, and he chased it.

She arched her back, jutting her hips towards him, and he wrapped his free arm around her, leaning his head against her thigh. He had no idea how to turn her destiny away from her, but this he did know - how to circle and rub and lick, how to draw the shape of her even through her clothes, how to tease and tease and tease and tease and finally yield up pleasure to her.

He looked up, silent but for effortful breathing, at her wide eyes, until finally, as her shudders calmed, she smiled.

"That was..." She blushed again. "Thank you, Tybalt."

"Thank me by not dying," he retorted, less forcefully than he would have liked.

She shook her head slightly. She braced her hands on the shelf she sat on and moved to stand, but between the awkwardness of the pose she had been holding in the shallow niche, and what he had done to her, her legs were still trembling; instead of sliding from the niche to stand, she tumbled into his lap, one thigh between his thighs, his own raised knee jarring her cunt again. More awkward than gratifying, as her armour bruised his less-armored skin through his clothes, but even so, with her hot thigh pressed against his groin, he came so hard the world flickered out for an instant, a roaring in his ears like a flock of dragonhorses' wings.

She pulled away from him, righting herself, and he didn't think she knew.

"I am going now," she said, her face solemn again, and he had used up all his persuasion, and was not - quite - selfish enough, foolish enough, to protest further. To stop her was to try to halt the day.

"Farewell, Juliet," he said, and she nodded, and left him there, alone beside the death he had sought for so long.


End file.
